SLIPPERY WHEN WET
by foxdvd
Summary: Don and Stella are quite picky when it comes to their appearance. They don't like getting dirty... FIESTA! May increase rating if the general reviewing audience asks nicely for it...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: ** I know modern day technology wouldn't allow for this to happen in real life, but give this old broad a break: when I began my TV watching days I had to get up and turn a dial knob to change the channel and there were only FOUR channels to choose from! So bear with me in this throwback to the golden era of black-outs without emergency generators kicking in to save the day (and ruin the mood).

Xxx XXX xxX

If there was something Don Flack Jr. hated, it was getting dirty. Even when it was work related dirt. ESPECIALLY when it was work related dirt. He was known for being a lot less nicer to suspects who were directly responsible for him getting dirty somehow.

Stella Bonasera didn't mind getting dirty. Much. She was well aware that it came with the professional territory, and she didn't mind getting dirty every now and then. Much. But Stella Bonasera drew a line at her hair. She absolutely DESPISED getting her hair dirty. It was a huge no-no, perhaps the first of the unwritten lab rules that new techies learned on their first week at work. You wanted to see a seething Stella? Aid her in a lab test that ended up getting her hair dirty. Paint ball testing? Flour explosion? Dumpster diving? If you wanted to avoid permanent maiming, you called in anyone else, Mac included. But you didn't ask Stella.

So it didn't really surprise anyone that after the delivery boy mishap, both Flack and Stella had virtually run to the locker room to clean up. Don's tie, which in all honesty wasn't as hideous as his usual repertoire, had taken most of the damage, but the fate of his dress shirt was still undecided: if Mr. Fong could work his dry cleaning magic, the shirt might live to see another case. If not, well… the trash can was a good a choice as any.

Stella's wardrobe barely registered the mishap, but her curls… even the security guard by the elevator cringed when he saw the mess her curls were. Coffee, ketchup, coleslaw, gravy… every single ingredient in 5 different take-out orders seemed to be tangled one way or another into her curls.

Nobody on the floor was really amazed by the fact that Stella beat Flack to the elevator… even when he had a good 12 feet lead on her. And as pissed as he was about his own clothing, Flack knew better than get in the way between Stella and the showers. He wisely chose to wait for the next car up; even if that meant that the possibilities of his tie dripping on his brightly polished shoes grew exponentially. He'd rather take his chance with those odds than ride 8 floors in the same lift as a seething, dripping, smelly Stella.

By the time Flack reached the locker room, the sound of the shower running was perfectly audible. He ripped off the tie and aimed for the trash can. On second thought, he shoved it in an empty plastic evidence bag and stashed it in the duffel bag where he kept his gym clothes. As expensive as the cleaner's bill was going to be for THAT mess, it was still cheaper than replacing the silk garment. Served him right for wearing his "formal" tie to work. That would hopefully teach him that, no matter how tired he was after shooting some hoops with the guys, Monday nights were THE nights to pick up his clothes from Mr. Fong. The shirt, on the other hand, had seen better days, so he balled it up and threw it towards the bin in the corner. He missed by several inches.

He cursed under his breath. The fuck with it, he'd get it on the way out. Right then, he was more concerned deciding whether he should change his undershirt or not. He opted to go for a clean slate and took it off, letting it fall to the ground. He fleetingly considered showering, but the rumble in his stomach reminded him that his lunch hour was up and running and he nixed the idea.

An in-depth exploration of his locker revealed that: a) he didn't have a clean undershirt available, b) the only dress shirt in there was going to clash horribly with the suit he was wearing (Note to self: buy only solids from now on), and c) the only tie to be found was wider than a bib and older than his grandma…

He quickly regarded to discarded wife beater on the floor. Just as quickly he decided that he'd go sans undershirt for the rest of the day. Grabbing a spray-on deodorant, he quickly covered his chest with the product, perhaps in a heavier quantity that he'd normally used, but his paranoid sense of smell could swear he still smelled of chicken broth and garlic.

Don grabbed the shirt and was sliding up the second sleeve when the lights went out. He tensed a bit, counting the seconds before the emergency generator kicked in. After a couple of minutes had gone by, he accepted rationally what his gut had been telling him for what seemed like eons: the generator was not going to kick in. He felt his way around his locker shelf until he found a tiny maglite and turned it on. The batteries were not new, and it showed, but at least it worked.

"Goddamn motherfucker! Shit! Shit, shit… shit!"

Don looked up when he heard the string of obscenities. He quickly realized that they came from the showers. Stella! She was still in there, trying to find her way in the dark…

Mr. Nice, Don's head-strong southern "friend", beat him to the punch line: a WET and NAKED Stella Bonasera was trying to find her way back to the locker room… and into his arms.

Xxx XXX xxX

**A/N: ** I know. Short. And weird. And a cliffhanger to boot. It wouldn't be me if I wrote a fluff-n-smut that didn't end too soon AND involved a cliffhanger now, would it? Promise to update ASAP!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: ** Sorry for taking so long to update. The muse was feeling rather… err… un-sexy, so to speak.

Xxx XXX xxX

Using the half-powered maglite, Flack made his way into the shower stalls. He had been debating what course of action would be wiser: come in calling her name or come in quietly. He was certain she didn't have her gun with her, but experience had taught him that a pissed off Stella, however unarmed, was a very dangerous thing. And by the sound of the cursing that still echoed in the hallway, "pissed off" was really a way to put it nicely.

"Stell?" he called out carefully, deciding that "better safe than sorry" was an adequate course of action given the circumstances.

"Flack? Is that you?" came the answer.

"Yeah. I have a light with me. Stay where you are and keep talking so I can find you." He directed.

"Okay. I am in the left row… was on the fourth stall on the left… until I had this bright idea of leaving the stall and bumping my way around the benches… my shins are going to be all black and blue by tomorrow… and I'm guessing it's going to be sandals for me for a couple of days until my left toe is back to its normal size and…"

Flack smiled despite of himself. Stella usually wasn't this kind of talkative and it was somehow endearing to realize that underneath the tough, no-nonsense surface, Stella Bonasera was a girly girl. He was now at the beginning of the left row; sure he'll be able to reach her in no time…

Murphy's Law, for those who are not familiar with it, states that everything that can go wrong will go wrong. It usually happens when you least expect it, or even worse, when you least need it to happen. But happen it does, as Yoda would say, and NYPD officers are not immune to it.

Especially those caught in the dark in the shower stalls.

And so it happened. Disaster struck them both, less at the same time, give or take a few seconds. In the end, the stereo intonation of a deeply felt "Fuck!" gave each other a pretty good idea of how bad things were on both sides.

The moment Flack got into the stalls aisle his maglite died. It wasn't exactly unexpected, given the dim light it had been giving, but it couldn't have happened at the worst time. Flack had been to eager in finding Stella (the naked Stella, chimed in his libido) to notice his immediate surroundings, so when the light gave out he was, well, literally left in the dark, with no idea what lay exactly in front of him… or anywhere else in the area, for that matter.

Stella, on the other hand, had been too distraught by the idea of her precious curls dripping gravy and who knows what else to pay attention to anything else. She had stripped right outside the stall, throwing all her clothes to the floor with enough force to give her a tiny tantrum-like satisfaction and had gotten under the hot water as soon as she could. When the lights had gone out, the water had stopped running as well, leaving her mid-rinse and with an enormous disposition towards cursing every single one of the workers in the maintenance area of the building, plumbers and electricians included.

She had stormed out of the stall, trying to locate a sink where she could finish washing her hair, when she had heard Flack's voice. He had a flashlight; therefore, she could find the sink and get over with the whole thing. Now, if she could only find her towel before he got…

Realization hit her even worse than the take-out containers. She had forgotten to bring in a towel. So unless she put back on the clothes she had gleefully kicked around and stomped on, Don Flack Jr. was about to get to know far more intimately than she had ever expected.

When the maglite dies out, Stella gave a small sigh of relief. At least he wasn't going to be able to see her naked, and she was sure she could talk him into getting her something to cover herself up once they were close enough. It seemed like a feasible idea, and a simple one to carry out as well. What could possible go wrong?

What could possibly go wrong, indeed…?

For starters, she could miscalculate just how far they were from each other. To say she was shocked when they bumped into each other after having taken only 8 steps would have been an understatement. To say that Flack had been expecting it would have also been an understatement. To say that either one of them expected what happened next would have been the biggest understatement of all.

Xxx XXX xxX

**A/N: **I know. Short. And not too smutty. But good things come to those who wait.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Everybody in da house who's up for some Flack lovin' say Oh-Oh…

Xxx XXX xxX

I would be fair to say that Flack caught Stella (a NAKED Stella, as his libido gleefully reminded him) out of sheer reflex. He knew she was in there, somewhere, but he hadn't expected that "somewhere" to be so close. Granted, he had tripped over the bench and then got caught up in God knew what type of clothing that had been left carelessly laying around – he later found out it had been Stella's messed up clothes, so there went her intentions of getting redressed in them. Good luck with that, sister, after a 6'2" pissed off cop got done kicking them out of his way.

So he caught her whilst tripping and stumbling. That didn't necessarily mean Stella didn't end up in the floor. After all, what's meant to be is meant to be, and fate had decided she would end up on the floor inside the shower stall where she had been showering in the first place. Only difference was, she ended up on top of Don Flack Jr.

Stella hadn't been expecting the collision, but when it happened, she had expected at least a couple of things. For starters, se had expected her "savior" to keep her out of danger's reach… or the shower floor, whichever you prefer to call it. Then, as she realized they were loosing their balance, she had expected (or hoped, actually) to be able to gab unto his suit jacket or at the very least, his God-awful tie. Alas, she found none. Instead, her hands grabbed a mix of cotton and polyester, and the ripping sound that followed made her realize that a) Flack had only been wearing his shirt, and b) she had just, quite effectively some may add, ripped it open, and all she could hope was that c) he'd believe her when she blamed gravity for that.

As they hit the floor she tired clawing at the undershirt she had also expected him to be wearing. Instead of that, she found herself clawing at his tender skin, pulling at his fine chest hairs and, quite expectedly, hearing him curse under his breath. Truth to be told, it wasn't exactly "under his breath" as his hissed curses echoed through the empty shower stalls. Not that she could blame him.

Flack had also his share of expectations. He had expected Stella to be naked (no prompting needed this time), but he hadn't expected her to be so slippery. He had half-expected, half-hoped her skin to be soft and her whole body to be supple, but nothing prepared him for the real thing. And there was also the logistic of where to put his hands so they wouldn't slip and touch… what the rest of his body was virtually praying to touch. Reflex made his arms go around her to cushion the fall, and the laws of gravity and fluids dynamics managed to make his hands stop at her hips. Cling would have been a better description, come to think of it.

Too many expectations for only 23 seconds, which was exactly how long the whole incident lasted. 23 seconds later they were both on the floor, him underneath her. Her fingers were still tangled on his chest hair. His hands were still settled on her hips. Her breasts were too close to his face for his comfort, and her crotch was too close to his legs for hers. If Don tried to sit up, or if Stella made an attempt to get off him… well, let's just say that things would get uncomfortable real fast.

Although others would have said that things would get INTERESTING real fast, neither Stella nor Flack would have agreed just then. He was trying very hard to remember the grizzliest crime scenes he had witnessed in order to keep his erection from getting bigger. She was willing herself to keep her hands perfectly still. She could feel his heartbeat under her palms and her right thumb was grazing his nipple and she knew that she was thinking of Flack as a man, not as her friend or fellow cop, but as a MAN, for crying out loud and a very desirable man, and it had been too long since she last had caressed a man and she was so, so very tempted to throw caution to the wind and just touch him.

So there they were, tangled up on the floor, holding still and keeping perfectly quiet and being grateful for the absence of light. The only audible sound was a dripping faucet somewhere in the room, which was dwarfed by the loud screaming going on inside their heads:

You work with her.

You're his supervisor in the cases you work together.

She's still recovering from her ordeal with Frankie.

He's still recovering from the blast.

Get a hold of yourself, dammit; you're not a horny 15 year old who fantasizes about bedding his hot teacher.

Get a grip on your hormones, girl, you ain't Mrs. Robinson.

DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT MOVING YOUR HANDS!

Dear God, I want to taste her so badly.

Good Lord, I need to touch him…

This is so fucked up.

This is so wrong.

And the argument could have gone on and on had it not been for fate. They had both been too worried about making the first move and wondering how they were going to get out of that particular situation with their egos more or less intact and the minimal embarrassment possible. In short, they were so preoccupied about behaving like a man and a woman who just figured out they were lusting after one another that they had forgotten to behave like the sharp investigators they both were. If they hadn't, one of them was bound to figure out what the dripping sound meant, and maybe, just maybe, they would have gotten out of the stall in time.

Wishful thinking, as my mother likes to point out, is a good way to pass the time but does nothing to change the outcome of things in real life. Truth is neither one of them put two and two together. Neither one of them realized that a dripping sound meant there was water moving in the pipes. Neither one of them remembered that the shower had been going full blast when the blackout took place. And therefore, neither one of them was prepared to get drenched when the emergency generator kicked in and the shower began running again.

Which was exactly what happened right about…

"Christ!!! The water's fucking cold!!!"

… then.

Xxx XXX xxX

**A/N: ** I know. Me bad. I promised some loving. But it was too much fun torturing them like this! Got to confess I've been playing "Slippery When Wet" whilst typing this. Cyber chocolate cookie to those who can tell me who I am listening to.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Let's see where the muse carries this one, shall we? All I can tell you right now is that we're heading straight into M territory. By the way, I didn't ask their legal owners permission to play with them so keep this as hushed as possible, will ya? Thanks!

**A/N2: ** You know the drill. Repeat after me: "These characters are fictional, therefore in no risk whatsoever if they don't practice safe sex (read: use condoms). I, on the other hand, am not fictional; therefore, I take care of myself when indulging in sexual activities".

X x x x x x x x x x x x x x X

They both scrambled to turn off the shower, but not before they were completely drenched. If Flack had thought it had been hard dealing with a slippery-when-wet Stella, he soon learned it was virtually impossible with a "soapy-slippery-and-wet" one. The end result of the mad dash to stop the water assault was catastrophic.

On second thought…

By the time they were done struggling, twisting and slipping, their bodies had changed the way they had been originally aligned. Stella was, for lack of a better word, straddling him. And Flack had, instinctually I guess, placed his foot on each side of the door to stop their sliding out of the stall. Given his height and the available room inside the stall, his legs were flexed, thus effectively stopping Stella from getting washed out of there…

Which would have been great, except that now Stella was sitting right on top of his erection, and there was no way in Hell she didn't know what, exactly, was underneath her. And if that wasn't enough, Flack's hands were splayed all over her ass, thus keeping her securely stationed… there.

But what closed the deal, as they say, was the fact that her breasts were now straining in front of his face, giving Flack a first-hand view of her nipples, puckered and hardened due to the temperature changes. He was close enough to be able to see the tiny veins tingeing her flesh… and that's when he realized that the lights were back on.

He slowly lifted his head until his eyes met hers. Stella was still hanging from the water fixtures, which she had grabbed in an attempt to avoid further injury. But after the "danger" had passed, she realized where the real danger lay. Stella was certain that, if she let go of the faucets, she'd be, for all practical matters, dry humping Flack.

Although, given the circumstances, "dry" wasn't that accurate. But you and her both got the idea, so she kept hanging for dear life, desperately trying to figure out a way to get up ASAP with minimum exposure , which, given the circumstances, was as possible as George Clooney dropping by for some threesome action.

All her thinking, however, evaporated as soon as Flack made eye contact with her. There was something highly erotic about watching those deep blue-green eyes glancing at her from between her breasts, probably because she could picture them looking at her from between her legs, and she had to bite her lower lip to suppress a moan. But not before Flack saw the look of pure lust on her face.

Later, much later, if they felt like rationalizing the whole thing, they would both agree that it was a series of… fortunate? unfortunate? events that were responsible for the whole thing. Flack looking up set Stella's imagination running. In order to control her imagination, she bit her lips and closed her eyes. Watching Stella biting her lip was one of the sexiest sights Flack had seen. And since he didn't want to think of Stella "that way", he averted his gaze. Averting his gaze brought his attention back to her nipples.

And that's when all got shot to Hell.

If asked under oath, Don Flack Jr. was willing to swear he opened his mouth to say her name. But Stella shifted her hips, oh-so-very-slightly, just then. And that, your Honor, is the reason why my mouth latched itself around her nipple. Not only latched, but sucked on, nibbled, licked… and when I was done with the right one, I subjected the left one to the same treatment…

Stella's lip biting proved to be insufficient to suppress her moans. She let go of the faucets and placed her hands on his shoulders as he continued to feast on her breasts. She allowed her body to rest fully on top of his, enjoying the contact of his erection against her, and it wasn't long before she decided that clothing between them both was not an option anymore.

Great minds think alike, and Flack had reached the same conclusion at about the same time. Mentally telling Stella's breasts that he'll be back later, as they still had plenty of things to "talk about", he removed his hands (regretfully as well) from their current location and wrapped his arms them around her. Once he felt he had secured her, he pushed himself upward, to a sitting position.

"Flack? What…?"

Flack cut her question short by crushing his lips to hers. The voice of his conscience, his Jiminy Cricket so to speak, had been adamant he kept proper manners. Where had he learned that you first got acquainted with your lady's chest and THEN you met her mouth? Flack could swear that somewhere inside his head he could hear his mother tsk-tsking, but since his mother's voice was the last thing he had wanted to hear just then, he quickly proceeded to make amends. Thus, he began kissing Stella in hopes she wouldn't mind the change in style.

Not that Stella was complaining, mind you. Quite the opposite, actually.

Stella Bonasera was no stranger to passion. Or sex. Or lust. And although love wasn't that common on her list, she had managed to meet it once or twice in the past. But nothing she'd lived so far had prepared her for the turmoil of feelings Don Flack's kisses were provoking inside her. Oh, but the man could kiss! For a fleeting second, she was filled with jealousy. Who had taught him to do that twirly thing his tongue was doing just now?

Stella had always been a very visual person, and she had never found it difficult to picture in her mind how a murder was committed, or how had a victim reacted. Same thing happened when it came to sex. If she saw a man she fancied she had no problem picturing him with her in bed: if he was dancing, she could imagine his hips moving as he thrusts into her; if he was eating, she would imagine how his mouth would work its way around her body.

What she's having trouble with now is remembering how to breathe: her mind had no problem at all picturing the twirling tongue inside her mouth doing exactly the same thing on her clit… and the visuals are enough to push her to the point of no return. She needs to feel him inside her, she needs to feel him NOW, and Stella Bonasera is not a patient woman when it came to orgasms when she was worked up this badly.

Of course, there were myriad things she wanted to do to Don Flack Jr., and in myriad places far more comfortable than a shower stall badly illuminated by an emergency generator. But right now there was only one thing she wanted. Him. Inside of her.

Her hands left his shoulders and began working on his trousers. Two wrist flicks and the belt buckle was undone, a third one and the button was open. After that, sliding the zipper down was child's play, and once that was done, her hand was inside his boxers, stroking, tempting, cajoling…

Not that Flack needed any of the abovementioned. He had been aroused since his libido had been kind enough to point out the fact that Stella was naked in the dark. And as Stella was visual, he was oral, and all the attention his mouth had been paying to her thus far had him almost fully erect.

"Lift yourself a bit", he growled against her ear, and she was quick to comply.

As soon as he felt Stella rise up, he lifted his hips, grabbed both trousers and boxers, and pulled them down to his knees. He toed up his shoes and wiggled the rest of the clothing off. It took him left than a minute to be as naked as Stella, and it took her less than 10 seconds to impale herself on him once his hips were back on the ground.

"Fuck, Stella…."

"My thoughts, precisely..."

And that was the extent of their verbal communication. Their bodies, however, had plenty of things to say and were constantly figuring out new ways to tell them. His hands, mouth and teeth were busy working their magic on her neck, shoulders and nipples. Her nails were adamant on leaving permanent reminders of the things he was making her feel all over his shoulders, his back, his chest…

Their hips were tangled in a dance that, albeit not perfect as they still had to learn each other's ebbs and flows, was synchronized enough to make the need for each other and for release almost turn into a living thing in its own.

The coupling was messy, rushed and lacked all sorts of finesse. It responded more to need than to love, but, fortunately for them both, they were both beyond the age of romantic notions regarding first-time lovemaking. The tenderness, the painstaking discovery of every inch of skin, of every pulse, of every nerve ending… that was put on hold for a later date. For the time being, they were both satisfied with the melding of mouths, the clumsy groping and the uneven thrusting.

But it worked. Flack felt the telltale signs of his impeding orgasm, and although he tried his best to delay it, he knew his best in this case wouldn't be enough to allow Stella to catch up with him. He silently cursed his libido for getting the best of him and prepared for the unavoidable, wondering how he'd ever make it up to Stella. She was going to think he was some inexperienced geek, a perennial horny teen… Don Flack might not be the biggest Casanova in the force, but he had been around enough to know that if there was something women hated with a passion was to be left hanging, all worked up, and not getting any sort of release.

He also knew what he could (should?) do in such cases, but he was also weary of trying it out. He had learned the hard way that not every woman liked this kind of help, so he debated a couple of nano-seconds. In the end, he decided to give it a shot. Knowing Stella, the worst that could happen would be trying to live down the embarrassment of her chiding him for doing it. Having made up his mind, Flack allowed his hands to slide downwards…

Maybe it was her scream in his ear. Maybe it was the fact that after deafening him for the rest of the week, she bit down on his shoulder… hard. Maybe it was the way she went feral on him and clawed his sides until he bled. Or maybe it was the way her inner muscles had clamped down on him like a vice. Maybe it was all of the above. Whatever the reason, Flack was sure they had both experienced one hell of an orgasm, worthy of registering on the Richter Scale, one his battered and bruised body (head bump included, as his head had smacked against the wall in the throes of passion) was more than eager to repeat on a regular basis.

It took all of Stella's strength not to slump down on him afterwards. She was more than used to having a couple of orgasm whenever she indulged in sex (more often by herself than when in company, but she wasn't one to keep score), but she could not recall having TWO almost simultaneously. As soon as her mind was back to working order, she made up her mind about a couple of things. For starters, she was officially jealous beyond reason of every other woman who had been in Flack's life. Secondly, there was no way in hell she was NOT going to have a second serving of whatever it was Flack had done to her. And a third. And a … hell, she wanted the recipe AND the cook kept in her own safe under triple lock and 15 laser beams. And lastly… she didn't want to think of the last one, but she knew it wouldn't be long before someone came looking for them, and as much as she cherished the idea, it wouldn't do either their jobs any good to be found naked and still high on sex.

"We have to…"

"Get dressed, I know. I'll go get us something."

By the time he returned with them, he was dressed in sweats and was handing her some as well. Flack left the bathroom and Stella was thankful for allowing her some modesty after what had happened and felt something akin to a warm spot in the vicinity of her heart.

The warm spot, however, soon turned to cold dread, as she realized he had left the floor altogether without waiting for her. The rest of the day was spent re-telling her ordeal (the PG version of it) and listening to everybody else's experiences in the dark. She kept an eye on Flack, but he was doing a great job at keeping as far away as possible. Stella managed to get a few moments to herself in the office, and hid her face in her hands, all the whilst berating herself for allowing something like this happen. "It was a stupid thing to do. Stupid! Now everything is fucked up…"

The rest of the shift dragged on and by the time she was ready to go home, sorrow had found a nice niche inside of her heart. As she walked towards her car in the nearly deserted parking lot she took out her cell phone and debated whether or not to call him. Would it be best to try and clear the air and salvage whatever possible from their friendship and their work relationship? Or would it be better to sweep the whole thing under the rug and never ever bring it up again?

The whole HIV ordeal had taught her something she hadn't known about herself: she didn't handle wondering very well. Maybe it was middle age settling in, maybe it was that she was more aware of her own mortality, or maybe it was all a load of bullshit, but Stella didn't have the patience to deal with uncertainty anymore. She opened her cell and hit speed dial 3. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard a phone go off barely 2 feet behind her. Swiftly turning around, she found herself staring right into Flack's face. Her heart missed a beat at the memories those eyes of his evoked, and her mouth went dry when she saw the determined look in his face, his jaw set, his hands clenched…

Before Stella had a chance to speak, she was back in his arms again, her face covered in kissed, her hair getting messed by his hands tangling here and there. After what seemed a joyous eternity, he allowed her some breathing room.

"I can't" he stated simply.

Stella panicked. "C-can't?" she stammered.

"I can't stay away. I can't get you out of my head. I can't get enough of your kisses. I can't deny what I feel for you anymore. I can't stand your not being in my arms. I can't stand not being inside of you a moment longer. I can't stand not knowing if you're going to want me in your bed forever or if you want me out of your life for good. Take your pick. And if you don't like any of those, there's a whole lot more where those came from…"

Stella took a step back and carefully studied the man in front of her. It was madness what he was proposing, but she'd rather be mad next to him than live sane without him. Right there in his eyes, those eyes that had driven her crazy, there was the answer she had been looking for, and she wondered why it had taken her so long to reach it. And now that she'd made up her mind, everything just felt so… right.

"Flack… I think you need a shower… at my place…"

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

**A/N: **Well, the muse certainly decided to take a walk right out of my usual stuff. Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
